


running away, across an ocean

by dames_for_jamesbarnes



Series: the only constants are the stars [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: CIA Agent Reader, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Light Angst, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25228852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dames_for_jamesbarnes/pseuds/dames_for_jamesbarnes
Summary: “The only time I really think about seeing stars is when I see them outside a jet window,” he admitted, and when you turned to him it was with disbelief. He chuckled, because of course he did, and you just kept your gaze trained on him.“You guys have a jet? You gonna tell me where the FBI gets jet money while I get a cot and a tent to sleep in?”He didn’t reply, but you could see his smile, and when your eyes turned back up to the sky, you felt his own land on you.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & The BAU Team, Aaron Hotchner/Reader
Series: the only constants are the stars [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1835089
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	running away, across an ocean

There was a beauty there. Each night, falling asleep beneath the stars, the cool wind rushing across the desert floor. Sure, sand got kicked up, but that wasn’t the worst part of it all. It wasn’t even close.

No, the worst part was the job.

The cases themselves were either dull or dead ends. The people were either assholes or incapable. There was never a middle ground, just… a lot of men who thought the world should go their way or the highway. And then there was you, one of three women who managed to get in the game, and struggling like hell because of it.

“Do not call again unless you have some solid intel,” you snapped. “I don’t have time for games, and I sure as hell do not have fucking time for a rookie looking for a promotion.” Your eyes closed, and you pulled the phone away from your face, slamming the antenna down on the satellite phone before clipping it back onto your belt. Your hands immediately went to your hair, pulling out the ponytail only to tie it back up tight and high.

Two years in the desert, and while the stars were always a highlight…

With a huff, you moved to stand over the table where your files were, fingers tracing over the black and white photographs before you heard the flutter of the tent flap.

“Ma’am. I’ve got an agent here, says he was detailed to come to you when he landed.”

“An agent?” you called back, not turning around. You weren’t aware of any new CIA lackeys coming in to try and do your job better than you could. “Who sent him?”

“FBI, ma’am.”

Well. Wasn’t that a surprise, as well as an annoyance.

Your head lifted from the study of the photos, allowing you to turn and face the two men at the entrance to the tent. One of them, a soldier, one you’d seen around base, a low-ranking guy who did the errands the older ones didn’t like to do. The other, definitely the agent, the suit being a dead giveaway. He was handsome, at the very least, but that didn’t mean much when looks usually matched ego.

“Dismissed, private. Go get some grub,” you told the soldier, who nodded and gave a salute, backing out of the tent and jogging off to grab a meal. It left you alone with the agent, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the knucklehead as you walked around the table to lean against it. “So, they send the FBI when the CIA can’t get the job done? Doesn’t seem like this is your purview, Agent…?”

“Hotchner, Aaron Hotchner,” the man said, and you watched as his eyes seemed to pick apart the whole tent. Scanned it front top to bottom with eyes so brown they looked black, especially in the lamplight of the place. If he was trying to make you squirm, it didn’t work, but a lesser person would be fidgeting under a sharp gaze like that. “I’m a special supervisory agent with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’m to report to Agent Y/L/N, get debriefed.”

“You’re in the right place, Agent Hotchner, but you’re gonna need to change first,” you told him. “An outfit like that gets a target on your back.”

“What kind of target?” His voice is low, gravelly, and when he looked at you again there was something in them that told you he was tired. Worn. And yet, he was here.

You shrugged. “The kind you see through a scope. We’ll get you the garb. Ugly as hell, but it gets the job done. You’ll be sweating through it in no time.” With a little gesture to your own attire, dirty cargo khakis, the combat boots, and the vest over a shirt that looked like every other shirt you had with you, you gestured back to him.

“Understood, Agent.”

His… quiet demeanor. It was unnerving. You worked with a lot of alpha males who chose yelling as the best form of communication, and this agent looked like the lot of them. Short cropped hair, sharp jaw, hooked nose. The only thing he was missing was a beard, something you doubted he’d ever sported in his life. But even though he looked the part, and would fit in even more so once he got changed, you couldn’t help but think he wouldn’t ever get in with the guys.

Maybe that he wouldn’t even want to.

It was silent for a few moments, the two of you sizing each other up. “We’ll start in the morning,” you finally offered, when you admitted that the only thing you had waiting for you was a phone call to headquarters about this guy. Get a background. “There’s nothing here that can be fixed overnight, so get some shuteye if you can. First night is always the hardest.”

The agent nodded, and you watched as he turned to opening in the tent. You started to turn yourself, before he paused, the flap open to the night air.

“I’m not here to step on any toes,” he told you. That low voice was almost quiet, respectful, even. More than you’d gotten from anyone else in this place. “You’re the agent-in-charge. I’m just a resource. But I’m good at my job, and I can help you catch who you need to catch, if you’ll let me.”

That made you laugh again, and when he raised a brow, you just shook your head.

“Agent Hotchner,” you told him, “you being here has already stepped on more toes than you can imagine.” Your feet carried you across the tent, fingers skating over the photos, the files. When you stopped, it was in front of the corkboard you had, various skirmishes of note pinned up. “Now, that’s not your fault, not even close. But I’m telling you that while I appreciate your intel, your job while you’re here is to make sure I’m not failing at mine. So, forgive me for not being the most welcoming, but you’re gonna be out of here in a week, and I’ll still be here, digging in the sand.”

When you turned back towards the agent, he hadn’t flinched, but his brow was still raised. You grimaced again, an almost smile, before nodding toward the outside. “Your tent will be a few down from the mess. Find it first, get some food, and then… tomorrow we’ll get started.”

-

You ended up being right. With a beard and in the essential uniform, Aaron Hotchner (or Hotch, as he insisted you call him) looked like all the other guys who came in and out of your tent. Especially when he had those sunglasses on, a holdover from his days as an FBI agent stateside, he blended in.

You knew what he really was, though. There wasn’t an ounce of military in him, and more than that, the respect he had never left, even when you blew him off that first meeting. He respected your place as the agent-in-charge, called you ma’am, and you worked together.

You liked him.

That one week turned into three months. Cases had a tendency to go cold when you couldn’t exactly go investigate crime scenes further than what photos gave you. You’d go days without a lead, which was definitely less time than the weeks you had before Hotch came, but those periods in between were enough to leave anyone frustrated.

But Hotch – he didn’t blink. He took your frustrated scoffs and hands slamming on tables. He took your anger and annoyance with the people who doubted you, and he helped you use it. And when you saw that eyebrow of his raise, saw his own anger flare up when someone else flew in to push you around, you showed him just how capable you were.

You were a team. Partners, almost, in the new home away from home. 

It was the evenings when you got to know him. When working all night didn’t make sense that time, and so dinner was when you wrapped up. You’d offer him a beer or two, and you’d shoot the shit, sitting outside while the moon rose above you, hovered there.

He told you about his son, back home, with his aunt until he flew back. You told him about your mom, the only person you really called so she could hear your voice. He told you about law school, the FBI, and profiling, and you broke down your trajectory through the ranks of the CIA.

He told you about his wife. And he told you about the BAU. About his team, every one of them. And if you saw his eyes get a bit glossy when he mentioned them, well… you didn’t mention it.

Perhaps it was those conversations that got you thinking about him. About what Aaron Hotchner was like back home in the States, what his team was like in person and not just anecdotes. Did he crack jokes? Did he smile? Did he laugh with his team at Quantico? Did he look at the stars, like you both did every so often, when the beers settled well and the morning felt far away.

“The only time I really think about seeing stars is when I see them outside a jet window,” he admitted, and when you turned to him it was with disbelief. He chuckled, because of course he did, and you just kept your gaze trained on him.

“You guys have a jet? You gonna tell me where the FBI gets jet money while I get a cot and a tent to sleep in?”

He didn’t reply, but you could see his smile, and when your eyes turned back up to the sky, you felt his own land on you.

Three months came and went, the two of you working shoulder-to-shoulder. You helped him navigate a new territory, and he helped you inch closer and closer to finding the bastard you were sent to Pakistan for in the first place.

“It shouldn’t be this hard finding this guy,” you groaned for the third time, fingers running through your hair. Your tent was your regular meeting spot, with intel from across all branches of government making its way onto your wall. With another pull through, you finally felt satisfied enough to yank it back again, this time into a bun that held it tight against your head. “We’ve followed the money, we’ve followed the aliases, we’ve followed the victims. He’s just… he’s three steps ahead of us.”

“We’re close. A few days, and he’ll make a mistake. We just have to be there to catch it.” When you looked at Hotch, you saw him bent over a photo with a magnifying glass, looking every inch the Sherlock Holmes you’d come to see him as. He’d find clues with the littlest of things, and you’d watch him piece together intel without breaking a sweat. “Did you call that contact of ours?”

You shrugged, standing from a stool to move so you were standing side-by-side with Hotch. “He’s holding steady. He’ll reach out if he has something of use, but I don’t know how we’re supposed to find this guy with old information.”

“Any information is good information. We just have to put the pieces together.”

When you nodded, he seemed pleased, and you turned to face him with a smile. “You a fan of putting pieces together?” you asked him. “These things seem like games to you.”

“I don’t do it for the thrill of the chase, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replied, but his tone was light. His arms crossed over his chest, and when he turned to face you it took a moment to realize the sleeves on his shirt were rolled up over his elbows.

He looked like he belonged here. There was a hint of a tan in his skin, and as you scanned him you realized the beard was the fullest it’d ever been. He hadn’t bothered shaving after that first week, and it suited him, the facial hair.

It all suited him.

The silence was dense. As you were watching him, he was watching you, and you realized that his gaze had drifted down, over your chest, down over your hips. You wondered what those eyes saw when you turned around, or, even better, when they closed at night.

“So it’s to impress me, then?” you asked him, and if you were a little breathless, it was only because he was close enough that he was taking up all the air.

Was that nod imagined?

You drifted together. One hand of yours moved to lay flat on the table, steadying yourself. One of his followed suit, on top of yours, and his other hand seemed to be thinking about sitting against your waist.

You were so close. Just one push forward, one turn of your head, and it’d be over. All you could see were his eyes, half-lidded, dark as they scanned your face, lingering on your lips. You could do it, could take a step forward and let him overtake you.

Would he pin you against the table? Would you straddle him in a chair? Would he tilt his head back for you, or would you bend forward for him?

Reality hit first. Getting caught would be the least of your worries, never mind what the rest of the whole damn command center would think. It’d spread like wildfire, and you’d never see the light of day again, your power stripped from you.

All for one… one damn kiss. A fantasy, come to life.

A shuddering breath left you. The spell seemed to break, and Hotch’s eyes blinked away the evidence of his desire. When you pulled back, it was with a swallow and a shake of your head. He seemed to get the memo, and his thumb stopped stroking the back of your hand, but you couldn’t let yourself mourn the loss. You had a job to do. One that needed your full attention, one that would prove yourself.

Your hands moved up to your hair again. Tightened your ponytail. “We’ll… we’ll talk strategy in ten minutes. I need to update the colonel,” you offered, and when he nodded you walked away, feeling a pang for the loss of a good lay. Of something else that you couldn’t put your finger on.

Whatever. There was always time. You didn’t regret it, not planting one on him, if only because the thought of something to come was still so alluring.

-

Some part of you, deep down, knew that this would be a temporary position. Perhaps that part of you kept you from kissing him that night. Knowing that at the end of the day, you were nothing but a distraction from what haunted him in those quiet moments.

Of course, when it did end… you just didn’t think it’d be like this – all over with a phone call, one he took after staring at the caller ID, going outside where the wind and Humvees would stop you from overhearing him. Of course, you heard it anyway, heard his breath catch. Heard him tell the person over the phone that he was on his way, no trouble at all. No fanfare.

It was just… over.

And it hurt.

When you pushed open his tent, Hotch was packing up his bag with his meager belongings, and when he opened his bag you caught sight of that damn suit he’d worn when he first showed up. For some reason it made your anger flare, and one hand reached out for him before you realized that you had no right to touch what wasn’t ever yours to begin with. He turned, to look at you, but when he did it was like he was looking past you, through you.

“You want to tell me who was on the other end of that phone call?” you asked.

It was like he was already gone. Even looking at you he didn’t stop folding, putting away the meager belongings he brought. “A member of the BAU. I’m being reassigned.”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right? You’re leaving?” Your voice was sharp, and for a minute you realized something you should’ve caught onto a long time ago. He was just like all the others. “We’re not – we’re not done. You said it yourself, we’re a couple of days away –“

“I’m needed back in Quantico.” His own voice was annoyingly calm, but there was an undercurrent that had your jaw clenching. As you looked at him, you seemed to see more of him than he’d ever revealed before. Saw the bags under his eyes. The ragged weight of his beard, unkempt at the edges, up the sides of his face. The gauntness of his cheeks. “An ongoing investigation got a lead, and I need to be back there with them.”

“Hotch, it’s fuckin’ two days. You’re telling me you can’t spare two days for this case? For me?” At this point you were incredulous, and your hands were thrown up in something like disbelief, not even realizing that you’d just broken what tenuous line had remained uncrossed.

That’s when he stopped, of course. His hands stopped moving, and his head ducked. He was basically packed; the only thing left a photo next to his cot. His son, he’d told you once, after a couple of weak beers, when the two of you moved past a fragile alliance and more into a solid team.

“This case isn’t over. And it’s important, you’re – you’re important.” He said it hesitantly, like it pained him to admit it, to face the reality of what this had become in a short three months.

You didn’t hold your breath, though. You knew what was coming. You weren’t the BAU. You weren’t his team. You were important in the macro sense, in the way that human life was something he always sought out to spare. In the way that open cases would always linger. In the micro, this team was a part of his DNA.

“They’re my family. And I need to be with them. This… this one is on me.” You could see the tension in his body for a moment lift, his decision his own and one that he wanted to make. His shoulders, always curled forward over papers or a meal from the mess or your notes, were straight, for the first time in a long time.

The conversation was over. You knew it. He knew it. As soon as you left that tent, the two of you would never see each other again. He’d made his decision, and he’d take it to his grave. He cared about them. Loved them.

In that moment, with all of that running through your head, it felt silly, getting worked up over Aaron Hotchner. It felt childish, begging him to stay forty-eight extra hours so that there could be some kind of closure. He deserved this, a clean break, without any extra weight keeping him from the people he cared about.

So you didn’t beg. You’d asked, he’d declined, and so everything else got shoved away, never to be mentioned again.

“All right,” you finally whispered, and when he looked up at you, your gaze was stony. You wouldn’t let regret weigh you down. You’d finish this case. You’d catch this guy. “Good luck, then, Agent Hotchner.” Your hand reached out to him, a professional handshake.

He took it, his grip firm. If he noticed you shutting down, shutting him out, he didn’t mention it.

“Be safe, Agent Y/L/N. Call me when it’s over.”

“Sure. Catch the bastard you need to catch.” 

The last thing you saw of Agent Hotchner were the pieces of his family – his son’s picture, reverently placed on top of his folded suit – before you walked out the tent and back into the desert air, thinking about how you’d watch the stars a little while that night.

They were the best part of the desert, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @qvid-pro-qvo on tumblr.com for more reader-inserts!


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